The Last Heroes (Men at War 1)

‘‘If you knew then what you know now, would you have?’’ Ann asked.

Sarah thought that over a moment.

‘‘Yes,’’ she said.

‘‘See what I mean?’’ Ann said. ‘‘Pity you can’t drink,’’ she said. ‘‘I could use some company.’’

She picked up the telephone and told the bell captain to send up a quart of bourbon.

‘‘I worked it out,’’ Sarah said. ‘‘At this moment, it’s half past nine tomorrow morning in Rangoon. If he’s still alive, he’s already had his breakfast.’’

Rangoon, Burma 0930 Hours 9 December 1941

If there had been any tea at Wing Commander Hepple’s house, six blocks away, Bitter hadn’t seen it. But there had been a good deal of gin and whiskey, and even a bottle of bourbon. A redheaded Scottish woman had also been there. She was private secretary to a Briton high in the colonial bureaucracy, and she and Stephanie Walker, the woman with whom she shared an apartment, found the newly arrived young American fliers a welcome addition to the British officers and civil servants.

Stephanie Walker was small and pale, and in some ways reminded Ed Bitter of Sarah Child. It was, Ed Bitter told himself when he woke up in Stephanie Walker’s bed, partly that, plus the excitement of the war starting, plus all the liquor they had put away at Wing Commander Hepple’s tea, that had brought him to her bed.

Stephanie Walker was married to an RAF fighter pilot ‘‘temporarily, for eight damned months’’ posted to Singapore, but by the time Ed learned that, they were already in the apartment.

He got out of bed and found Canidy naked and entwined with the redhead in another bedroom. Then he walked on tiptoe to the bed and shook Canidy’s arm. The obvious thing to do was get out of the apartment as quietly and quickly as possible.

Canidy was hungover, he announced quite unnecessarily, and before he did anything he wanted a good breakfast and a lot of coffee. There was no sense in rushing off to get it, since they had been invited to eat right here.

Breakfast was actua

lly rather pleasant, and Stephanie Walker was neither as coarse nor as crude as he thought he would find her when he was sober.

He would, he thought, telephone her in a day or two.

Then he thought, Good Christ, I’m getting as amoral as Canidy.

When they stopped by the CAMCO house to change clothing, there was another radio message for them, taped to Canidy’s mirror:

CANIDY BITTER RELIEVED RANGOON STOP REPORT ME WITH FERRY GEAR STOP CROOKSHANKS

There was a penciled note on the bottom of the Teletype paper: I’ve got a truck going up there this afternoon. Your gear would probably make it OK on it. Dolan.

‘‘Shit,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I knew this was too good to last.’’

They packed their clothing, then drove out to Mingaladon Air Base.

Canidy, without making any kind of preflight examination of aircraft, climbed into the cockpit and put his helmet on. Bitter was at first surprised that he was taking chances like that, then angry that he was probably still drunk and didn’t know what he was doing. But finally he was angry with himself when he realized what Canidy was actually doing.

It was folklore among pilots that the best cure for a hangover was oxygen. Since Bitter had never flown hungover, he had had no chance to test the theory. But that was clearly what Canidy was doing.

Two minutes later, Canidy climbed out of the plane and handed Bitter the mask and the oxygen bottle.

‘‘It’s leaking,’’ Canidy announced blandly. ‘‘You might as well use the rest. I’ll go check the weather and get another bottle.’’

Ed Bitter was very surprised at how good the cool oxygen felt in his nasal passages, and how quickly it seemed to blow the cobwebs away.

When Canidy returned from Operations, he had two .45 Colt Model 1911A1 pistols.

‘‘This should make you happy, Admiral Farragut,’’ he said. ‘‘We are now officially armed to make war.’’ And then he had a second thought. ‘‘Speaking of which,’’ he said, ‘‘don’t push the red button. They’ve put ammo aboard.’’

Five minutes later, they lifted off. The hip-holstered automatic got in the way, and Bitter resolved to get an aviator’s shoulder holster just as soon as he could. But having the pistol was comforting. Even more comforting was to be in control of an armed fighter plane. This is what he had been trained for, at the Naval Academy and at Pensacola. He was indeed going in harm’s way in the defense of his country, even though he was an employee of the Chinese government in a uniform without insignia.

There were no other aircraft in the bright blue skies between Rangoon and Toungoo.